


A Fine Romance

by Mazarin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Food Porn, M/M, Strawberries, Sugar, Sweetness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 22:18:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1404541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John thinks he should probably explain to Sherlock a few of the finer points of romance. Wine, strawberries, a roaring fire on a winter's night. Sounds perfect, right? Leave it to Sherlock to find a way to make his own point, instead.</p>
<p>
  <i>They’d been arguing (“Not arguing, John, we’re having a philosophical debate.”) over the concept of romance for the better part of a week. Sherlock, always direct in his attentions, hadn’t ever seen the point of it if not for shamming someone into doing something he wanted, in which case there were plenty of other ways that were much less complicated or time-consuming. John had just smiled at him and decided after their last go-round that demonstrating would be much more effective than explaining.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>And it seems to be working, if the eagerness with which Sherlock opens his lips to accept the sugar-coated berry is any indication. John touches Sherlock’s lower lip with the fruit, leaving a tiny spot of sugar that Sherlock instinctively catches with his tongue. John’s breath hitches at the sight, so he does it again, only for Sherlock to smirk before slowly dragging his tongue across his lower lip.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fine Romance

**Author's Note:**

> I needed something lighthearted and smutty to clear away the fog of all of the S3 angst that was really dragging me down. Unbeta'd, except for a quick sanity check by Mydwynter to make sure I wasn't posting something disastrous. If you see any errors, just drop me a pm over at mazarin221b.tumblr.com

“Romance is a ridiculous social construct intended for nothing but to encourage otherwise ambivalent partners to engage in sexual intercourse,” Sherlock says, fiddling with the tie of his dressing gown. “And if they aren’t ambivalent, they’re usually enthusiastic, so then the efforts are completely unnecessary.”

John shakes his head and pours the wine— an achingly sweet ruby port— into a bowl. “Romance isn’t always about sex, Sherlock.” Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Okay, it is fairly often, but it’s also about kindness, intimacy, and indulgence. Doing something for someone you care about for no other reason than the sheer joy of doing it.”

Sherlock flushes slightly and turns to look at the fire. John watches, enchanted, as the blush traces its way down Sherlock’s neck to his chest, bare under his dressing gown, as are the long, long legs folded up with toes tucked under a hideous striped afghan throw. Sherlock looks demure, but John knows better. The edge of his dressing gown is slipping ever so slightly off of a creamy white shoulder, and the corner of Sherlock’s mouth has just a hint of a smirk. He may be here under a small protest, but he’s obviously at least somewhat curious. John smiles back and catches Sherlock’s eye, sees a hint of simmering interest there, but ignores it for a more drawn-out goal.

The warmth of the fire is welcome on this cold February night, and John had gathered every blanket and cushion in the flat to make a cozy little pallet on the floor—all the better for them to sit as close together as possible. John puts the bottle aside and picks up a big, ripe strawberry from the tray sitting in front of them and holds it in his fingertips, just by the stem end. Sherlock looks at it with raised eyebrows.

“Yes, it’s a strawberry in winter, and not one of those imported ones dosed with nitrogen, either.” John lowers his voice. “It’s lusciously, fully ripe. And one of your favorite things, if memory serves.”

“It is,” Sherlock says, and leans forward to try to take a bite of it, right out of John’s hand.

John pulls it back quickly. “Ah, no. Wait.” John dips the strawberry in the bowl of wine. The port has enough body to cling to the fruit and leave it dark and gleaming for an instant before John rolls it in a small dish of white sugar. Sherlock watches avidly, and John inwardly cheers that this, at least, has met with his definite approval.

They’d been arguing (“Not arguing, John, we’re having a philosophical debate.”) over the concept of romance for the better part of a week. Sherlock, always direct in his attentions, hadn’t ever seen the point of it if not for shamming someone into doing something he wanted, in which case there were plenty of other ways that were much less complicated or time-consuming. John had just smiled at him and decided after their last go-round that demonstrating would be much more effective than explaining.

And it seems to be working, if the eagerness with which Sherlock opens his lips to accept the sugar-coated berry is any indication. John touches Sherlock’s lower lip with the fruit, leaving a tiny spot of sugar that Sherlock instinctively catches with his tongue. John’s breath hitches at the sight, so he does it again, only for Sherlock to smirk before slowly dragging his tongue across his lower lip.

“Tart,” John says approvingly. The seductive side of Sherlock, the sensual, teasing side that rarely sees daylight, is peeking through under the influence of John’s flirtation. He wasn’t sure Sherlock would be fully game for the entire setup John had in mind, but from his bare shoulder to his now-wet bottom lip, it seems he absolutely is.

Sherlock is so into it, in fact, that he grasps John’s wrist and brings the strawberry to his mouth, wraps his lips around it and takes a bite. His eyes flutter closed as he does so, the juice welling up to stain his lips a bright red. John is transfixed as Sherlock chews, swallows, and shifts forward just enough that his dressing gown slips further from his shoulder and down his arm. John tries to swallow, but his mouth suddenly has gone dry.

“That’s not romance, that’s seduction,” he accuses.

Sherlock shrugs eloquently, and the deep blue silk slides further down his arm. “Does it matter?”

“Not in the slightest.” John leans toward him, close enough he can feel the heat of Sherlock’s body against the bare skin of his chest under his own dressing gown, and dips his left thumb in wine and sugar. He cups his hand around Sherlock’s jaw before pressing his thumb against that plush bottom lip, and when Sherlock hums a little and slips his tongue out to lick, John can feel arousal flare like petrol on a fire.

John presses his thumb in a little more, encouraging. Sherlock gets the idea and gently sucks on it, drawing John’s thumb fully into his mouth and glancing at John from under lowered eyelashes. John’s absolutely hard now, but he quells the urge to just push Sherlock over onto his back and rut against him until they both come. _Romance_ , John chants to himself. _Pleasure._ _Fucking hell his eyes will be the death of me._

Sherlock lets John’s thumb slip from his mouth and rest on his lips. He kisses John’s palm, his wrist, nudges around the fine bones to kiss the soft underside of John’s arm, just at the edge of the sleeve of his dressing gown. John sighs with pleasure at the delicacy of Sherlock’s touch before he wraps his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulls him in for a long, deep kiss that pushes the edges of John’s restraint, Sherlock’s lips sweetened with sugar and strawberries and leaving John high on arousal and adrenaline.

“I thought you said romance wasn’t about sex,” Sherlock murmurs against the corner of John’s mouth.

John shivers and tugs gently at the ties of Sherlock’s dressing gown until they come free. Oh, to hell with it, and whatever lesson he thought he was trying to teach. “No, I said it wasn’t _always_ about sex,” John says, and leans forward to press gentle kisses to Sherlock’s shoulder, the one that had been taunting him all evening. “Besides, sex can be romantic.”

Sherlock chuckles, and then shivers under John’s lips. John presses that tiny bit of advantage and pushes the dressing gown completely off, Sherlock slipping his arms from the fabric and leaving it pooled around his waist. He’s completely aroused, and John can’t help but trace his finger around the head of Sherlock’s cock. The skin is soft and velvety, and John rests his thumb over the little bundle of nerves on the frenulum.

Sherlock hisses in a breath. “Just…more, please,” he says, and starts to unfold his legs so John can get better access. John quickly moves the tray of strawberries and wine out of the way and guides Sherlock down onto the blankets, pulls the dressing gown away from his body and spreads his legs.

God, he’s a sight. Gorgeous, long legs and dark flushed cock, flat stomach and sculpted chest, and a face that regularly stops John in his tracks just to stare. John wants to devour him, but settles for leaning on his elbows between Sherlock’s legs and licking a long stripe from his balls to the tip of his cock. Sherlock throws his head back against the floor with a muffled thump. John grins does it again, and then lets the head of Sherlock’s cock press heavily at his closed lips for a moment before allowing it to slip inside.

John loves this part, the beginning of a blow job where things aren’t quite so urgent and he can suck and nibble and lick. He does, swirling his tongue around the head, teasing the slit with soft, probing licks. He knows Sherlock likes it, too, the drawn-out tease, the long build up until he’s kept balanced just on the verge of coming, so John slides one finger down Sherlock’s perineum to massage his hole in concert with long, soft, shallow sucks at the head of his cock. Sherlock arches under his mouth, trembling. John groans with satisfaction, keeps working him until he’s just at the edge, swearing, reduced to begging John to let him fuck his mouth.

“Dear God, please, harder, suck harder, let me, let me…” Sherlock trails off with a gasp as John opens his mouth further, sucks down hard and then pulls off almost all the way. Sherlock almost shouts, panting and moaning. He shoves his hands into John’s hair and grips so hard John can feel tears spring to his eyes. He ignores it and continues, and it’s only a few moments before John feels Sherlock tense, gasp, and come in long, shivery pulses across his tongue.

“Oh my God,” Sherlock pants, staring at the ceiling. “I’m not entirely sure I can move.”

John smiles and rests his head against Sherlock’s thigh, the bitter tang of come on his tongue. He loves feeling Sherlock come apart like that, loves feeling him unspiral so completely and give himself up to mindless, unthinking pleasure. He feels his own cock twitch when he presses a kiss to Sherlock’s thigh and sighs. Romantic kindness and indulgence, indeed.

“You’re completely ridiculous,” Sherlock says. “You may find self-sacrifice in these situations romantic, but I find it moronic. Come up here.”

“I just didn’t want you to think I was only doing this to get myself off, you know. Proving a point.”

“It’s a stupid point.”

John crawls over Sherlock and settles against him, his cock pressed against Sherlock’s belly. “Not a stupid point,” John mumbles, and presses his face into Sherlock’s neck. The skin of Sherlock’s neck is soft and smells like shampoo and shaving foam and sweat. John inhales deeply and drags his nose along the slope of his neck to his collarbone.

Sherlock sighs happily, wraps his arms around John’s back and grips his arse, encouraging him to thrust a bit. John moans at the contact, his cock sliding against Sherlock’s skin, but the light friction isn’t enough. John bites his lip and reaches down to stroke himself. He’d like more, wants to fuck Sherlock senseless on the floor with the glow of the fire on his skin, but he’s too close, now, and he’s sure Sherlock wouldn’t be ready.

“Want you so much,” John pants as he fucks his own hand, and it’s too dry for anything more than taking the edge off.

Sherlock moves to sit up and John leans back to let him, his hand slowing on his cock. Before John can ask what he’s up to, Sherlock rifles through his dressing gown and comes up with a small bottle of lube he’d had in his pocket.

“Here. Not for…well.” Sherlock turns over and positions himself on his hands and knees, arse in the air and thighs together.

John knows immediately what he’s getting at, so he kneels straddling Sherlock’s calves and dribbles lube down the crack of Sherlock’s arse until it drips from his balls. He slicks himself up and buries his cock into the tight space between Sherlock’s arsecheeks and his thighs. It’s hot and tight and absolutely brilliant.

“It might feel better if you move,” Sherlock says, drily.

“Oi, enough out of you.” John rocks against him and oh, yes, it feels amazing. “That’s the last time you’re getting yours first. Always such a mouth on you once you’re satisfied.”

“And here I thought romance was dead,” Sherlock snarks, and John flicks him on his arse. “Hey!”

“Shut up, would you, you’re ruining it.”

Sherlock rocks back until his arse smacks John’s stomach. The impact is like lighting a torch, and John’s right back on the edge of coming in the space of a heartbeat. The fire is now almost too hot; he can feel the sweat beading up on his face, can see it on the dip of Sherlock’s back. The first tendrils of orgasm are beginning to wind their way around the base of his spine, and John thrusts a bit faster until they take hold and drag him down, and he’s coming hard between Sherlock’s thighs.

John collapses against him, resting his forehead on Sherlock’s back a moment before sliding away, grimacing a bit at the mess on the blankets. Sherlock rolls over, avoiding the wet spot, and stretches like a cat. He looks very pleased with himself.

“That was amazing, but not exactly what I was planning for.” Sherlock just grins at him and John suddenly remembers the bottle of lube in his pocket. “Wait, that was definitely what you were planning for, though. Should have known you’d find a way to make your own point.”

Sherlock props his head up on his hand. “Did I, though?” he says, and looks at John with eyebrows raised.

“Well, yes, I mean, I said that romance wasn’t always about sex, that it was about indulgence, intimacy, and doing something lovely for a person you care about, and…” John stops. “Oh.”

“Indeed. What we did, was it not complimentary? Did I not catch the spirit of the thing by indulging you, being intimate? Your enjoyment of my attention doesn’t diminish my enjoyment of yours, you know.”

John chuckles. “You’re right. I suppose it’s not just what you do for a person, but with a person.”

“Mmm. Absolutely. You can do more of that, if you like. The strawberries were delicious.” Sherlock smiles lazily and closes his eyes.

John isn’t remotely tired, so he jumps up and washes his hands quickly before booting Sherlock off of the blankets with a squawk of protest. He drags the messy top blanket off and throws it to the side, motions Sherlock back to where he was, and then coats two strawberries with wine and sugar. He hands Sherlock one.

“To romance,” John says, bumping his strawberry against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock puts the strawberry to his lips, and then slowly, sensuously licks the sugar off. John can’t stop staring.

“To romance,” Sherlock says, and winks.

 


End file.
